


What a Wicked Thing To Do...

by 2momsmakearight



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Breakup Sex, F/M, Smut, post-IWTB, pre-Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2momsmakearight/pseuds/2momsmakearight
Summary: Written for a Tumblr prompt dealing with the song, "Wicked Games" by Chris Isaak. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do...





	What a Wicked Thing To Do...

The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat, and I hiss against its fiery trail. That’s the plan for tonight. Sip. Hiss. Repeat. No thanks, I can’t make it. I have a date with Jack Daniels. We haven’t been seeing each other long, you see – It’s relatively new. More like a rebound. He knows it, and doesn’t seem to mind. It’s all part of the pattern: Scully calls, Scully comes over, Scully comes, Scully leaves. Enter Jack with his smoky aftertaste and mind-numbing powers to pick up the pieces in the wake her trail. She barely wipes my come from between her legs and there she goes, bolting through the front door. Again.

But, Jack is always there. He’s dependable like that.

I wonder if I dip my fingers in the amber liquid they would smell like Jack instead of her. I can still smell the earthy musk of her arousal every time I bring the glass to my lips. She’s on my fingers, on my clothes. Jack doesn’t judge. Jack doesn’t tell me to change my clothes, or wash her scent from my skin. Jack lets me indulge. Jack lets me martyr in my own self-pity. Jack understands. It’s going well.

It’s not going to happen again, at least that’s what we tell ourselves each time. But we’re like addicts looking for a fix. It doesn’t take her yuppy, over-priced Falls Church shrink to figure that out. Save the money, Scully, I could have diagnosed our dysfunction for free.

She’s no better at resisting it, than I am. She may pretend to be in control with her bullshit rules and the false bravado behind her fifty-dollar mascara and two-hundred dollar dye job, but she’s always the one who calls. Even after all of these years we’re drawn to each other, pushing and pulling as we each fight against the addiction. My needle to her vein. Needle to her vein… Let Freud chew on that one for awhile.

We are the perfect enablers to our most destructive tendencies, which is ironic really considering my most destructive habit looks and acts so much like the woman I fell in love with. My greatest strength is also my greatest weakness. And she knows it. She knows it even as her hot breath against my ear is begging me to make her come…

I’m pretty sure there’s a good-looking D.C. plastic surgeon who knows that sound, but I’m not supposed to know about that. She likes it hard, Doc, in case you didn’t know, and judging by the sob of relief I heard when I hooked her cunt around my fingers, you could learn a thing or two. My forearm twitches with the muscle memory. My ever-sympathetic cock follows closely behind. So nice of him to make his feelings known.

This is how it goes now: clothes on, no bed. Those are the rules, or rather those are what I assume are the rules. It’s not like we’ve spoken about it. God forbid we fuck in the bed we shared for a decade– *that* might mean something, Scully. But, sure, I’ll fuck you against the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator door with your skirt hiked around your waist, and your stiletto heels pressing into my ass in some sort of staccato rhythm of self-conflagration with each thrust I drive into you. Sure, I can do that. Because that’s what we do now.

She lets me fuck her, but not love her. She needs to feel me, but doesn’t want to touch me. I say no, she says yes. I push, she pulls. These are the wicked games we play. She has her D.C. surgeon non-boyfriend to keep her D.C. bed and D.C. life warm, and I have Jack Daniels. Yes, Jack and I will get along just fine.

Until she calls again. She always calls again. It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…


End file.
